


What a Devil

by lynxalted



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Character Death, One Shot, Slight Canon Divergence, Spoilers, animal injury, but if you haven't, character death isn't descriptive, if u played both games u know what's up, only mentioned really, uhhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:22:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24138820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynxalted/pseuds/lynxalted
Summary: Arthur has a mare named Ladybug. She's a fine, well-built horse; no doubt stolen, even if Arthur claims that he found her wild. She's sweet and eager to please. Never spooks, and wades through gunfights like a champion.Arthur has another mare named Scorpion. Violent beast, that one.
Relationships: John Marston & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	What a Devil

Arthur has a mare named Ladybug. She's a fine, well-built horse; no doubt stolen, even if Arthur claims that he found her wild. She's sweet and eager to please. Never spooks, and wades through gunfights like a champion. She’s thick-necked and the color of cream, soft-eyed and softer-nosed.

Arthur has another mare named Scorpion, pitch black without a touch of white on her. Violent beast, that one. John believes that _she's_ actually from the wild, because Arthur came back sore and bruised and with a certain vehemence towards her that can only come from getting bucked once or twice or three times. Nevertheless, he keeps her. "Racing stock, that one," he says proudly, stroking over the scars on her withers. It looks like a mountain lion tried to grab her at some point in her life. "Ranchers must've been turning out racing studs."

He takes her on jobs sometimes, and John's seen her sink her teeth into Baylock's neck until he bled; not that it's Baylock's fault. Micah has a tendency to shove his weight around, and a horse is the most efficient weight to throw. He threw a fuss over Scorpion's first attack, but it hasn't happened twice. Baylock refuses to get close to that mare and John doesn't blame him one bit.

For the most part, John stays clear of Scorpion. Old Boy is easy-going and smart; he knows just as well as John to leave a pissy mare alone. And, besides, Arthur has a tendency to prefer Ladybug. 

_For the most part._

"You sure 'bout this?" Thankfully, _thankfully,_ John manages to keep the nervousness out of his voice as he stares at the solid black mare next to Arthur. Her ears are turned back, the lines around her eyes tight. Ladybug stands on the other side of Arthur and Scorpion keeps turning her rear towards the other mare, hopping on her back hooves. He can't ride Old Boy at the moment, not after the stallion stuck his foot down a hole. It's not broken, thankfully, but he doesn't need to be making the injury any worse. When Arthur said he had a horse for him to ride, he had though it would be Ladybug, but apparently he thought wrong. 

The look Arthur gives him is distinctly unimpressed. "You can ride one of the other camp horses. If y'want to get left behind."

John squints at the mare, and then at Arthur, who still holds his shoulder a little awkward, a little hunched. Like the injury he got from Colm is still bothering him.

And then he looks at Scorpion, and sighs. Arthur won’t, and would never, say it, too stubborn to let people help him, but John knows that Arthur doesn’t have the energy to ride her down.

John does, even if he’s a little scared of her.

"Alright," he says, and takes her reins. Arthur grunts, but John sees a pleased glint in his eye.

John can't help but warm under his approval.

"What are we doing?"

Arthur takes a handful of Ladybug's mane, slips a foot in the stirrup, and swings his leg up and over. He's gathering up the reins in one hand, leaning down to pat Ladybug with the other as he answers, "Robbin' a stagecoach. Hurry up. And... don't get comfy."

Suddenly eager, John clambers into the saddle. Scorpion takes two steps before he realizes he could easily be in a world of trouble. 

First off - her gait is... _different._ Old Boy has this slow, ambling walk that's an easy sit. He can go fast when he needs to, but moves and stops like a freight train. Scorpion, on the other hand, is quick. She pushes off easily with her hind, strides eating up the ground, smooth as a snake. 

Second of all, and it's embarrassing how long it takes John to realize this, is that for the first portion of the ride, she's only _acting_ good. He's smug, and feeling a little cocky ( _she's not so bad, after all, he thinks_ ), which is a dangerous way to feel on an unfamiliar horse. 

And then Scorpion gets bored with their journey, and John hits hard ground.

He wheezes, staring up at blue sky and trying to remember how to breath. Finally, finally, his muscles relax and he sucks in a deep breath, coughing and spluttering, and realizes dismally that Arthur is laughing. It's not a chuckle, no, it's full-blown, the man thrown back in his own saddle, hand on his belly. "You dropped like a sack of taters, Marston!"

John's not even entirely sure what happened. When he sits up, he looks around first for his hat, then his horse. The first is on the road next to him, the latter a few yards further, stuffing her belly with green grass. 

"You just gonna sit there?" Arthur asks, voice light and breezy in his amusement. "Or are you gonna be a man and get back on?"

And, well, John can't sit there and take it. Cursing, he lurches to his feet and goes out to fetch Scorpion. She lifts her head to watch him, and he can't help but feel like she's giving him an unbearably smug look. She doesn't bolt, though, and stands, sweet as sugar, as John climbs back on and nudges her back towards Arthur. "You've got a devil of a horse, Morgan."

Arthur grins, gaze softening as Scorpion shoves her nose against his leg. "Don't be mean just 'cause she got the better of you. She's a good girl."

"For you, maybe," John mutters. 

She tries to drop him again after a little bit, but John expects it this time, hunches down in the saddle and pulls her around so she can't buck or rear or do whatever sneaky trick she did last time. She settles, pins her ears, and sighs. John kicks her into a trot and she reluctantly goes, catching back up to Arthur and Ladybug. 

The coach robbery goes well, up until a point, because that seems to be how most robberies go in this day and age. They're mounting back up when someone shouts, and Arthur and John turn to see what can only be a lawman racing for them. 

"Shit," Arthur says, and pulls his gun, just as another two officers appear on the hill. 

"Shit," John echoes, and they share a look. Nothing else needs to be said - they both scramble up onto the horses and beat feet out of there. Scorpion proves herself as something completely different all over again. Calling her fast seems like an understatement; she's agile and turns on a dime, easily pulling ahead of Ladybug even when John swears he's holding her back. She doesn't even flinch when a bullet comes far too close for comfort. 

"Trees!" Arthur shouts behind him. John risks a glance back, and sees Arthur point to their left. Further back, the lawmen are in hot pursuit, but starting to flag. John can't help but grin. He loosens Scorpion's reins, nudges her with a leg, and they vanish into the grove with Ladybug close behind. Arthur whoops, and John can't help but yell joyfully back.

The ride back to camp isn't as eventful as the ride to the coach. Both the horses are obviously tired, poor Ladybug more so than Scorpion, and the sun is beginning to set, casting the world in a warm, orange glow. Arthur gets off first when the tents finally come into view, groaning as his saddle-sore legs hit the ground. John leans forward, pats Scorpion on the neck as he kicks a foot out of one stirrup. "You're not too bad girl," he says. Scorpion flicks her ears back, and, too late, John feels her tense and there's nothing he can do about it.

For the second time that day, he hits the ground back-first. Arthur bursts into laughter again. "Good girls," he tells both mares, and feeds them sugar cubes while John stumbles to his feet, cursing. 

* * *

John's waiting for Arthur at Bacchus bridge, TNT in the wagon, lost in his thoughts like he often is these days, when he hears several sets of hooves on the ground behind him. Pulling his gun, he turns, thumb already on the hammer, and then relaxes. It's Arthur, sitting on Scorpion, with Ladybug and Old Boy both led behind him. John raises an eyebrow and Arthur shrugs. "Later."

John nods, and the two of them get to work.

When the bridge is blown and the train is long gone, Arthur tells him to hide the wagon and get on Old boy. "Come on," Arthur says, dragging himself up onto Scorpion's back, breath wheezing in his chest. "There's something I want to do."

John shoots him a questioning look, but swings up onto Old Boy. "Yeah?"

"I want to take her back to where I found her," is all Arthur says, leaning forward to stroke Scorpion's neck. "Come on."

It's not far from the blown train tracks to Little Creek. It rains on the way, but by the time the meadow comes into view the sun is starting to peek out from behind shaggy gray clouds. A cool breeze plays in the pines, tickling John's cheeks, dancing with the horse's manes. It carries the smell of wildflowers and growing grass, wet soil and damp bark. 

Arthur leads them out into the meadow, slides off with a grunt, and turns his attention to the saddle cinch.

He takes the saddle off Scorpion and puts it on Ladybug, then takes the reins from John. "She should be free," he says, and says nothing more. John stays quiet, watches as Arthur slips the bridle off Scorpion's head. 

She's stock still, quivering in place, ears back. She turns her dark eyes on Arthur, and he pushes a hand up into her forelock. Something unsaid passes between them.

Arthur steps back, and Scorpion explodes.

Arthur and John watch as she vanishes into the distance, bucking and kicking and _free._ Arthur tangles his hand in Ladybug's mane, gaze on that black dot in the distance, a small, sad smile on his face. 

That's when John realizes something is truly wrong with Arthur, but he doesn't have a clue how to fix it.

* * *

And then Arthur dies and the whole damn world goes to shit. 

* * *

_He died for a reason,_ John tells himself, trudging towards Abigail and Jack, waiting on Copperhead Landing. The reunion is joyous, Abigail burying her face in his shoulder in relief, John leaning down to pull Jack in close, too. The reunion is joyous, but it's tinged with sorrow. John waits as long as he can, which, admittedly, isn't long with the threat of the Pinkertons looming overhead, but it's long enough. Arthur doesn't miraculously appear in the distance and John turns his back on Roanoke Ridge.

* * *

_He died for a reason,_ John tells himself, fists clenched, mind on his gun, trying desperately to not get chased out of the third town this month. Instinct is a hell of a thing, though. He operates on fight or flight and, well, _fight_ has a nasty tendency to win. 

* * *

_He died for a reason,_ John tells himself, when things finally seem to settle. Pronghorn ranch is a good thing, for all of them. Maybe, finally, he can put that reason to good use.

And then he makes a mistake, because he still hasn't quite learned what _flight_ means. Jack and Abigail leave, and he knows the only way to get them back is to knock some sense into himself. He puts his head down and works.

Still picks up a gun, but Sadie asked him to, and with the promise of money - well, he just can't say no.

It all works out in the end. He gets his ranch, Abigail and Jack come back.

For the first time in a long time, life is good, up until it isn't.

Because eventually, the Pinkertons come back, this time with the promise of freedom dripping from their lips like snake venom. John does what they ask. 

He has no choice, really.

Later on, he'll come across the first of two familiar horses, down in Mexico, when he gets away from himself, finds that a trigger has become something far too easy to pull.

It's when he's at his lowest that a black stallion, white-face and white-socked, bloody and beaten and old, comes to him. John doesn't believe it, not at first, and then he sees an old scar on the stallion's neck, something that could only have been left behind by another horse. 

John shouts and screams and kicks dirt, but the horse doesn't leave him alone. He lurks in the background, until John finally grabs a hold of himself and puts his gun away instead of shooting, shoos someone away who doesn't quite deserve a bullet between the eyes. The stallion leaves, and John prays to God he stays away. 

He finishes what the Pinkertons want him to finish. Dutch dies. John goes home. 

He dares to think, while holding Abigail close, that maybe everything will be just fine.

* * *

It's when he's walking the fence outside the ranch that he spots her in a dip between hills, solid black with her head bowed low.

John would recognize that horse anywhere. He half expects to see the ghost of Arthur on her, a cocky light in his eye as he rides the devil herself. 

But Arthur isn't there, and the devil looks like the years have caught up to her. She must have come down from the mountains over the years, made herself a home on the plains. Grew old and tired. John wonders how many of the black mustangs he sees sometimes are her offspring, wonders if they're just as fast as she was.

There's still those long claw marks over her withers, faded with age. She carries more scars than before: the tip of an ear is missing; old bites and kicks decorate her flanks; a dog or wolf sunk teeth into her shoulder at some point. Fresher still is the stream of bright blood on her front pastern, the glitter of fence wire caught round her hooves. 

And, well, John can't leave her out here, now can he? He goes back to the barn, grabs a halter, and returns.

It’s not as hard as he thinks to catch her. He approaches, clucking his tongue to make sure her attention is on him. “Hey old girl,” he murmurs. “Remember me?”

Scorpion flattens her ears, but doesn’t move. John takes it as a good sign, or as good of a sign as it gets, and steps closer. “I rode you once, or twice. You put me on the ground more than that.”

One of her ears swings forward. John readjusts the halter in his hands and inches closer. “I think you liked Arthur better.” The name sounds odd in his mouth. He hasn’t said it in so long, and now he knows why; grief pricks a spot just beneath his chest bone, sharp as a knife. “He knew how to handle you.”

Her other ear swings forward. She reaches out with a velvety muzzle and flares her nostrils, sides bellowing out as she sniffs. John offers her his hand, palm up, and lets out a sigh of relief when she lips at it.

“He made you tame as a pup, didn’t he?” John murmurs, slipping the soft rope over her nose and behind her ears. Holding the lead in one hand, he crouches down, sliding a hand down her injured leg as he does. She still knows to pick it up, much to his relief, and it makes it easier to untangle the barbed wire from around her pastern. 

It's slow work getting her back to the barn, but they make it. John fetches a bucket of water and a clean cloth, ties the lead tight to the hitch, and sets to work washing the wound. She hurts, he knows, and he tries to be as patient as he can when she yanks her foot away. It's not long before he has company, Jack approaching with Abigail not far behind.

"What are you going to do with an old mare, pa?" Jack asks, voice careful but eyes nonetheless a little critical, lingering on Scorpion's swayback. John doesn't grace him with an answer.

Abigail, he sees, recognizes Scorpion, and she puts a hand on Jack's shoulder. "Did you go feed the hens like I asked you to?"

"No," Jack mutters.

"Well go on," she shoos him away with her hands, "quicker you do it, quicker we all get fed."

As soon as Jack leaves, she turns to John, a frown on her lips. "Is that-?"

John nods. "Yeah," he says, and his voice is rougher than it should be. He ducks his head, dabbing wet cloth at the wound, frowning at torn flesh. "Yeah it is."

Abigail pats her hands against the front of her skirts and nods back. "I'll go get bandages."

* * *

The problem - once she's healed up and feeling well enough to start pinning her ears back at everything and anyone - is that John doesn't have the heart to keep her in a pen. She's old and he knows she won't last much longer as a wild horse, but Arthur let her go for a reason, and it seems... _wrong_ to go against one of his last decisions.

John leans against the gate, playing with the latch absently, gaze on Scorpion as she chases his horse (a young, golden stallion from New Austin) in lazy, malevolent circles. Finally, he sighs, hikes the rope halter back up onto his shoulder, and slips into the pen. He catches her easy enough, and she pricks her ears and turns her gaze on him almost expectantly, like she knows what he's going to do. Like she approves.

"Ol' girl," John murmurs, and dares to push his hand up her nose and into her forelock, like Arthur used to do. She tosses her head and _whuffs_ out hot, grass-sweet breath against his face. He chuckles and leads her out of the pen, out into the scrubby brush of his ranch. His hands linger over the knot tie of her halter. 

"There'll be food here for you," he says, unties the halter, and lets it slip from her nose, "if y'want it."

With a spirited snort, she tosses her head and spins away, rearing and bucking as best as her old bones let her. John steps back and watches her as she frolics. Eventually, she picks her way over a broken bit of fence and disappears over the rise. John shakes himself away from the scene and, grumbling about broken fences, trudges back to the house.

The next day he bundles hay up into his arms and trudges back out, setting it just outside the now-mended fence. No one comes running, but the next day when he returns with more hay, he sees yesterday's meal gone. Whether that means another mustang got it, or the deer, he doesn't know, but he still puts down more. 

He doesn't see her until several mornings later, and when he does, it's to see her trotting up over the hill, nickering loudly. She's pacing back and forth when he finally reaches her, and stuffs her cheeks full as soon as he drops the hay. She's already looking better than she had before he let her go, the last bits of her winter coat gone, the cut on her pastern nothing but a memory. She's sleek and black and healthy, and still free - something that alights an unnameable feeling deep in John's chest.

"Good," he whispers. "Good."

He can't help but think, as he watches a little bluebird land on the scrub nearby, that Arthur would approve. 

* * *

John dies, and an old, black mare stands over his grave.

**Author's Note:**

> I like to think that somewhere, Jack Marston has a lock of horse's mane, black as night, tied to his own saddle.
> 
> -
> 
> Ladybug is the perlino Andalusian, Scorpion is the black American Standardbred that's in both games. I couldn't resist tying both RDR and RDRII together with that horse. :')
> 
> Also ft. that low-honor horse from the first game that has... a startling resemblance to Baylock.


End file.
